


The Kindest Use a Knife

by angevin2



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon-Typical(ish) Violence, Canonical Character Death, Discussion of Cannibalism (Brief), Discussion of Rape, Discussion of Torture (variety Pokers; Red-Hot), M/M, RSC compliant, Semi-graphic violence, Severed Heads, Vaguely Depressing Parent Stuff, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die. Based on the 2013-14 Royal Shakespeare Company production.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindest Use a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the 2013-14 RSC production, with David Tennant as Richard, Oliver Rix as Aumerle, Nigel Lindsay as Bolingbroke, and Oliver Ford-Davies and Marty Cruikshank as the Duke and Duchess of York. As such it's pretty different in some respects from the way I normally write these guys. In this production, the relationship between Tennant's Richard and Rix's Aumerle was particularly moving -- which made it especially troubling when the production gave Exton's part to Aumerle! Troubling enough, in fact, that I apparently had to write thousands of words of fic in order to make it make sense in my head. Title/summary are from Oscar Wilde's [_Ballad of Reading Gaol_](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19410) because of course they are. See the tags for content warnings.
> 
> I also need to note that on account of this production -- it was very fic-inspiring -- I received a number of really excellent fics also dealing with this material this past Yuletide (and slightly later): see also [Old/New](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1098056) by [skazka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/pseuds/skazka), [such is the breath of kings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1100101) by [kangeiko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko), and [this truth of love (i submit to thee)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1151944) by [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/pseuds/speakmefair). You should go read those too; they're all terrific! I have tried not to step on the toes of any of the authors; I'm not sure I've succeeded, so I apologize to all of them for anything I've ripped off. 
> 
> Finally, a lot of people have helped me figure this fic out, read it at various stages, and listened to me go on and on about it; I'd especially like to thank [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair), [skazka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka), [tenderheartedcousin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderheartedcousin), [Gehayi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/pseuds/Gehayi), and [lareinenoire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire) for all of their extremely helpful input.

By the time King Richard arrives at London, the polite pretense that he is still king in anything but name has long since been cast aside. It is Henry Bolingbroke that the people now acclaim as their king, Henry Bolingbroke whose name they cry out, Henry Bolingbroke whose horse's hooves grind into the dirt the flowers they throw in his path. Even those who had been Richard's closest friends -- those, at least, whose heads are not currently decorating London Bridge -- ride now in Bolingbroke's train. 

It is enough to make a loyal subject weep.

Edward of Aumerle has wept his share since their return from Ireland to an England already half in the grasp of his usurping cousin. He has wept more than becomes a man, wept until Richard had seen his distress and taken him in his arms and kissed him tenderly and then cradled his head against his breast. When Richard had confronted Bolingbroke at Flint Castle, his shirt was damp with Edward's tears. He imagines his own face scoured bare with the salt of it. Perhaps, he thinks, he is becoming a pillar of salt like Lot's wife. If Bolingbroke knew what has passed between him and Richard, he would say it is indeed for looking back at Sodom. But he has loved Richard since the first time he saw him, and now he is riding into London alongside the man who is carrying him to his destruction. 

The streets are crowded with people come to see their king, in name and in truth and in nothing else, brought through London in disgrace. They throw all manner of filth at him as they had cast flowers before Bolingbroke's feet. Bolingbroke has confiscated everything Richard had brought with him to Flint. He has not even been permitted to change his clothes since his surrender. Richard's face is white and pinched with exhaustion; since Bolingbroke's train was attacked in an abortive rescue attempt at Lichfield he has been kept under close watch, surrounded day and night by a dozen guards who would not even let him sleep. All the same, he bears this humiliation like a king. He cannot help but be regal, even when brought low in the eyes of his subjects. The muddy street might as well be cloth of gold. It is only the dust that draws tears from his eyes.

There is only one moment when Richard's resolve seems to crack, and that is when they ride past the Drawbridge Gate, adorned with the spiked heads of traitors, a grim crown. Edward breathes a frantic prayer that they've been sent elsewhere, that Bolingbroke hasn't bothered, that Richard doesn't want to look -- but when he casts his eyes to the bridge, the blank and battered faces of John Bushy and Henry Green gaze eyelessly down at them all through a thin layer of tar, and when he looks in Richard's direction, the king's face is grey, and the firm set of his jaw softens; his lips part as though he's going to vomit and his arms fall slack at his sides so that Edward fears he will fall off his horse and be trampled in the dirt. 

Edward thinks of what Richard has told him, gleaned from the taunts of his captors, about their deaths, and shudders. He had never liked Richard's favorites, with their pretty words and pretty arses, had always deemed it their fault that Richard, for all the affection he had shown Edward, had seemed utterly oblivious to the nature of his love. In the face of Richard's grief, it didn't matter anymore. They had been the ones willing to die for him.

Edward has promised Richard he wouldn't. It is not a promise he is eager to keep.

***

They had stopped in Chester, after leaving Flint. Only a day's march away, the city offered a less tangible advantage as well: Chester had always supported the king staunchly, and Richard had relied heavily on his guard of two thousand Cheshire archers for his personal protection. Bolingbroke's choice of destinations was a clear message -- _not even your firmest strongholds will defend you now._

It was plain, as soon as they arrived, that Richard had ceased to be king in the eyes of Bolingbroke and his men. Richard had admitted as much himself: _what you will have, I'll give,_ he'd said. It was not about Bolingbroke's lands. Maybe it never had been. But Richard was still king _now,_ no matter what happened when they got to London, and Bolingbroke had no right to treat him as a mere prisoner. 

"Take his majesty -- " and there was just a hint of a sneer in Bolingbroke's voice when he pronounced the words -- "and his entourage to the tower." Bolingbroke gestured toward the immense tower that loomed over the castle gates. It had been built, or so they said, by the Roman governor Agricola, who had finished what Julius Caesar started, and then been called back to Rome for outshining the emperor. Edward couldn't imagine that Bolingbroke was well-read enough to be aware of the irony. When he made to follow Richard, though, Bolingbroke's hand fell heavily on his shoulder. "You will remain with us, cousin," Bolingbroke said. "For your noble father's sake."

Edward had no intention of doing _anything_ for his father's sake, not when his father had betrayed the trust Richard had shown in him when he named him regent and turned to Bolingbroke's side the first chance he got, but Bolingbroke's guards were already beginning to position themselves in front of Richard -- until Richard nearly shoved them aside to stay close to Edward, wrapping his arms around Edward's shoulders. Edward felt his cheeks go warm and hoped to God that neither Bolingbroke nor his father noticed.

"My lord -- " Bolingbroke began, but Richard wouldn't hear it.

"You've taken all of my friends from me," he said. "You will not have my Edward."

Edward's heart slammed against his breastbone and he was quite sure his face had gone ahead and betrayed everything he was thinking; the temptation to close his eyes and lean into Richard's embrace was bad enough, even in such hostile surroundings. Bolingbroke's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized first Richard's face and then Edward's, and he lifted an eyebrow in Edward's direction before acquiescing with a single nod. "I'll send him to you," he said, "but I will speak to him first." When Richard refused to budge, he added, more quietly, "You have my word."

"You'll forgive me," Richard said, "if I need a stronger assurance than that." 

Bolingbroke locked eyes with him for a moment -- Edward could picture Richard's tight-jawed glare without having to turn around -- and then Edward's father approached, laying a hand on Bolingbroke's shoulder. 

"You have _my_ word, my liege," he said. 

This was not precisely sterling anymore either, these days, but Richard released his grip on Edward and nodded. His eyes met Edward's for only a moment, and he took Edward's hand and squeezed it before he was led away. 

Edward's father laid a hand on his arm -- whether as consolation or admonition, Edward wasn't sure -- and, once again, Edward stepped away to be out of his grasp. For a moment, his father frowned, and then turned to attend on Bolingbroke.

***

Edward is a traitor twice over, now, to the true king and the false one.

Bolingbroke has sent an army to seek out his co-conspirators at Oxford. They will have no chance, Edward thinks. It's a small band led by clergymen and the last few loyal men in England. They will all die and it's on his account. 

He wonders if they will tell Richard, when the plot fails, that Edward has betrayed them, has betrayed _him._

He wonders if Richard will live long enough to know of its failure at all. It was unlikely enough that Bolingbroke had truly intended to let him live; Edward's betrayal has ensured that he cannot. He may as well have signed the death warrant with his own hand. Richard's eyes had fallen on him when he was called before Parliament -- _so Judas did to Christ,_ he had said, and Edward will never forget the look on Richard's face, or the feeling that the all the air had been driven from his lungs, like he'd missed at tilting practice and taken a blow from the quintain.

Of course, that was before he'd earned the name. 

His parents keep a close watch on him -- at least, his mother does; his father largely avoids him, except to occasionally make sure he hasn't fled to warn his co-conspirators or mount some kind of mad rescue attempt. Not that Edward is particularly eager to see him; he doesn't believe he can ever do so again without remembering being called _traitor, serpent, festered joint._ His father had promised his loyalty. It was not a promise Edward had wanted him to make. He had not wanted to betray his father's trust, either, but he knew where his truest loyalties lay.

"You know your father didn't really mean those things he said," his mother says one afternoon, for probably the hundredth time since Edward had received the new king's pardon. She's doing needlework in her solar and he's sitting next to her staring into the fireplace, poking at his finger with one of her spare needles. "If you must do that, you can have some of my linen," she adds, when he doesn't respond.

Edward replaces the needle in its case, embarrassed. "He still said them," he says. "If he's sorry he said them, he can tell me himself."

"Your father can be terribly sulky when he wants to be," she says, putting her needlework aside for a moment to take his hand in both of hers. "It's where you get it from."

Edward wants to protest, because he's not _sulking_. He has _perfectly good reasons_ to be melancholy. Anyone would be miserable if they were in love with a deposed and imprisoned king and their efforts to restore him had resulted in having their father demand that the usurping king execute them as soon as possible. Anyone would be miserable if they were afraid for the life of someone they love. His mother ought to be aware of that -- but of course he can't tell her.

"Does he really think I'm a bastard?" he asks instead.

His mother laughs and returns to her embroidery. "Oh, of course not, dear, I don't know what possessed me to say that," she says. Edward is relieved for the briefest of moments, before she adds, without dropping a stitch, "It's your _brother_ he thinks is a bastard."

Edward's mouth drops open and his brows attempt to knit themselves together, but before he can decide whether he wants to inquire about this disturbing revelation, his mother continues, "Anyway, Edward, it might do you good to get away from court for a while. Go off to the country and go boar hunting or whatever it is you do." She looks up at him. "It's boar hunting in winter, right?"

Edward nods, wishing increasingly to have a way out of this conversation.

"Or you could get married," she says. "Really, you should be married already, at your age and with all those lands and titles coming to you. That would take your mind off all this political strife."

"Mother, this is hardly the time -- " Edward stammers, hoping he isn't pressed to explain this further, as _the only person I'll ever love is imprisoned in Pomfret Castle and I'm afraid that Bolingbroke is going to have him killed_ is not an explanation his mother is likely to understand. He stares at the floor, but it resolutely fails to open up and swallow him.

"Why not?" his mother says. "You could even find someone whose family sided with King Henry -- that would help convince him you're loyal. One of the Nevilles, maybe. Or isn't Northumberland's daughter still single? I think she's about your age..."

Edward's stomach churns -- he's met Margaret Percy maybe twice, and he hadn't noticed anything particularly _wrong_ with her, but even if he _were_ of a mind to get married (and he doesn't think he'll _ever_ be of a mind to get married), he can't imagine allying himself with Northumberland. "I don't think Northumberland would stand for that," he says, and tries not to sound too eager to say so.

"No, I don't suppose he would," his mother says.

Edward thinks, sometimes, of leaving England entirely, of going to France or Italy to join the Free Companies. Richard had always admired John Hawkwood, the leader of the celebrated White Company; after his death, he'd even had Hawkwood's body brought back to England. Obviously Edward is never going to be a great warrior like Hawkwood was, and indeed the idea of being a mercenary makes him rather sick to his stomach. The major advantage of the whole idea is that nobody would care, particularly, which king of England he was loyal to, as if there were more than one answer to that question. 

Also, he might die. Which at this point is a benefit, not a drawback -- except that it would break the last promise he made to Richard. And although Bolingbroke and his father and the whole world think him a turncoat, that is the only faith he has left to keep.

***

By the time Edward was finally allowed in to see Richard, it was past halfway vespers and perhaps nearly compline, for it was already well past dark. They'd put him in a tiny chamber, high up in the tower; it was small enough that the single candle on the windowsill was sufficient to light it and contained no furniture other than a narrow camp bed, too short for someone of Richard's height, with only a single straw mattress.

Richard was leaning on the windowsill, scratching intently at the glass with his ring -- Bolingbroke must not have noticed it, as he'd confiscated everything else of any value that Richard had brought with him. On the windowpane he was inscribing an epitaph, of sorts:

HIC IACVIT  
RICARDVS  
 ~~REX ANG.~~  
REX NIHIL  
ANN. REG.  
POSTREMO

He was intent enough, or the sound of the jewel scratching on glass was loud enough, that he didn't hear Edward's approach. "My lord," Edward said, his voice trembling, and the ring clinked to the windowsill and then to the floor as Richard crossed the room in a single stride to embrace him, kissing him with more heat than he had at Flint. Edward's lips parted eagerly against his; when they pulled apart for breath, Edward couldn't quite stifle the groan that threatened to escape his throat, or tear his gaze from Richard's lips. Richard's hands came up to cup Edward's face, his thumb stroking gently over Edward's cheekbone.

"Edward," he whispered -- not _cousin_ or _Aumerle_ but _Edward_ , and Edward gripped Richard's wrists tightly because his knees were beginning to buckle. 

"Your father kept his word," Richard said, after a moment. "I didn't think he would."

"My lord -- " Edward began, but Richard pressed his fingers to Edward's lips.

"Don't," Richard said. "I'm not, anymore."

"Richard," Edward tried again. The name was shocking on his tongue, almost _too_ intimate, or maybe that was just because Richard was trailing a finger over his lower lip. The temptation to take that finger into his mouth was nearly overwhelming.

"I'm sorry about my father," he said instead. 

Richard wrapped his arms around him and stroked his hair, as he had at Flint. "Your father is wise," he said. "He chose the winning side. It's not wise -- " He swallowed hard, and Edward wondered if he was thinking of Bushy and Green. "It's not wise to be loyal, in these days." He bent to kiss Edward's forehead. "I know it's not your fault, Edward."

Edward pressed his face into Richard's shoulder, gritting his teeth against fresh tears -- it was shameful, unconscionable, that as Richard's world was collapsing around him he should be made to offer comfort when he was most in need of it. He breathed deeply, burying his face in Richard's long hair and resting a hand on his shoulder to steady himself; once Edward might have caught the scent of rosemary-water and civet, but now he smelled only of dust and faintly of sweat. 

"My faithful Edward," Richard murmured, taking up his hand and kissing his fingers. "Too much so, for your own good. I wouldn't have you cast yourself away for my sake." 

Edward could scarcely answer for the feel of Richard's lips against his skin, the soft heat of his breath. He turned his head so that his own lips brushed against the pulse at the base of Richard's throat -- he had spent more time than he cared to admit wondering how its white length would feel under his tongue, although Richard was tall enough that there was no way he could find out properly from this position. 

"I am your liege man," Edward said, still muffled against Richard's neck, "of life and limb and of earthly worship -- " Richard laughed, bitterly yet not ungently, low in his throat; Edward could feel the vibration against his lips as he continued, between kisses, "and faith and truth I shall bear unto you -- to live and die -- "

"Edward -- " Richard said, but by now he sounded slightly breathless.

" -- against all manner of folk," Edward said, and it was incredibly forward, he knew that, but he drew Richard down to him, close enough to kiss him. "So God me help," he whispered against Richard's mouth. 

When Richard kissed him in response it was not the ceremonial kiss of a lord to a retainer but a real kiss, a true kiss, with his hands in Edward's hair and his tongue in Edward's mouth; Edward's own hands trembled as he reached down to unlace Richard's hose. It was even more forward, but it was all the comfort he had to give. He knew that Richard, for all his insistence that he remain apart from his subjects at all times, craved touch desperately; his preference for having multiple lovers wasn't mere hedonism but came from an intense need for simple human contact. Richard released him after a moment, gasping for breath, and Edward made to kneel.

"No," Richard breathed. Edward's cheeks burned and his throat tightened -- this was it, he had gone too far, he had ruined everything -- but before he could begin to beg Richard's forgiveness, Richard had pulled him to his feet. "I want to see your face," he said, long fingers already delicately tugging at Edward's laces. Edward's breath caught and emerged from his throat as a rather embarrassing whimper as Richard's hand curled around him, teasing him gently with those beautiful fingers; he closed his eyes briefly, breathing heavily, and when he opened them Richard was watching Edward's cock harden against his palm as though he'd never seen one before. For a moment, Edward could almost laugh.

"My face is up here," he said, his voice oddly thick. Richard grinned at him, withdrawing his hand from Edward's breeches, pressing against him as he bent to kiss him again. He was skillful enough at it that Edward almost didn't mind that Richard's hand was no longer wrapped around his cock. _Almost_ \-- his own hands skimmed down Richard's sides to grasp his hips and Richard sighed as Edward pulled him closer. It was close to being overwhelming; just being in Richard's presence was dizzying, sometimes, and now Richard was moving against him, bending down to murmur something heated but unintelligible into his ear and stifling a gasp as Edward reached between them to slip his hand between Richard's legs. When Richard maneuvered them onto the entirely inadequate bed the ropes groaned beneath their combined weight. 

Richard moved carefully, trying not to elicit further creaking, as he braced himself above Edward, his hair falling about Edward's face as he bent to loosen the ties on his hose, and Edward groaned as Richard's hand trailed up and down his thigh, a sound that turned into a yelp as Richard's fingers closed around both of their cocks. They both froze for a moment, heads turning toward the door. It was a foolish, mad thing they were doing; if they should be caught at it --

"I'm sorry," Edward breathed, after a long, aching silence, and Richard pressed his fingers to Edward's lips again before bending in to kiss him as he positioned himself between Edward's thighs. Edward's hands found their way under Richard's shirt; it was impossible to undress further, but Richard sighed gratefully as their skin made contact. Edward's fingers clenched on Richard's back and his hips rocked as Richard moved against him, breath hot against Edward's neck as he pressed his lips to the hollow of Edward's shoulder to muffle the little gasps and cries he couldn't hold back. When he finally lifted his head to draw a deep, desperate breath, his face was flushed from the effort of keeping silent and moving slowly, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared as he made a small sobbing sound in his throat, and Edward reached up to stroke Richard's hair before carefully pressing a hand to his mouth. Richard's hands gripped Edward's face, fingers in his hair and thumbs pressed against his cheekbones, as he thrust harder -- as hard as he dared to, on the creaky bed -- until he gasped against Edward's palm and his body spasmed and then went rigid as he came between Edward's thighs.

After a moment he released his hold on Edward's face, inhaling deeply as Edward took his hand away and pressing his forehead against Edward's until his breathing returned to normal. Edward drew Richard down into a lingering kiss, and afterward Richard smiled down at him, trailing the backs of his fingers down the side of Edward's face before straightening up to nudge his legs apart with his knee and then crawling down to -- oh _God_. 

It was improper in every way, it wasn't fitting for a king at all -- Edward propped himself up on his elbows with a protest on his lips, feeling abjectly unworthy, and then he felt Richard's tongue make its way along the underside of his cock and after that he no longer cared. Richard's lips closed around him, hot and insistent, and Edward's fingers found their way into Richard's hair, clutching at it tightly as his entire body tensed, trying not to let go, not yet, although his thighs were shaking and the inside of his lip tasted raw and metallic where he'd been biting down on it to keep from crying out. 

It was everything he had ever wanted, and now there was no time.

Edward came shuddering, his mouth falling wordlessly open, and when he recovered himself a little Richard had pulled himself upright and was perched uncomfortably at the foot of the bed, solemnly tying his laces back together. He sorted out his own breeches and hose before turning over so that Richard could stretch out beside him; it was a tight fit and Richard's feet hung off the edge, but the enforced closeness was a comfort. Richard wrapped his arm around Edward, pressing their foreheads together again, and Edward twined a lock of Richard's hair around his fingers before raising it to his lips. In the distance they could hear the cathedral bells ringing compline. It felt, fleeting as it was, almost like contentment, until Richard spoke again. 

"You should go, Edward," he said.

***

Edward is usually not one to take his mother's advice if he can help it, but upon further consideration, her suggestion that he leave court for a while is the least unappealing option available to him -- he doesn't have any particular business away from court, but at least he'll be away from everyone. Including his parents. He's preparing to ride north to Fotheringhay when a messenger from court comes to King's Langley -- to see him, and not his father, because his life is still, apparently, not horrible enough. He half expects that he's going to be arrested, on suspicion of some plot or other, although he wonders who Bolingbroke thinks he'd plot with now. Everyone else who might conceivably be loyal to Richard is dead.

The man who comes to see him is almost aggressively nondescript; he looks like someone you might find in the customs house, or a bishop's clerk, sober and plainly dressed with mousy hair and a forked beard -- not someone likely to be sent to arrest someone on suspicion of high treason (or, for that matter, anything else). 

For some reason, Edward does not find his presence at all reassuring.

He makes a perfunctory bow and offers Edward a signet ring. It's Bolingbroke's seal -- not the royal arms, but those of Lancaster. The ring feels massive in his hand; Edward swallows hard and feels his fingers go cold as he returns it. 

"My lord of Rutland," the man says. "I needn't tell you I'm here on his majesty's business. In a manner of speaking."

"In a manner of speaking?" Edward frowns, looking at the man more closely. He doesn't recall ever having seen him before, although he doesn't suppose he'd have noticed unless he'd been looking for him. "I don't even know who you are."

"Sir Piers Exton, my lord. I come on a matter of utmost...delicacy."

"Delicacy," Edward repeats. The cold in his fingers has crept up his arms into his chest and is wrapping its tendrils around his throat. 

"How would you like to earn your pardon, my lord?" Exton says. 

"I wasn't aware I'd have to earn a pardon that's already been granted."

Exton raises a nearly-transparent eyebrow. "Pardons can be revoked," he says. "As I'm sure the Duke of Gloucester would remind you, if he were alive."

"Do you have something to say to me?" Edward snaps. "Or are you just going to dance around it forever?"

"Very well." Exton bows his head. "I'll be blunt: you need to prove your loyalty. And the King needs Richard dead."

Edward's arm comes up without much conscious thought on his part, and he backhands Exton hard across the face. Exton staggers back, only a step or two, and Edward spits in his face.

Exton straightens up, calm as though nothing had happened at all. He produces a handkerchief from his sleeve and wipes the spit from his face before dabbing at his bleeding lip. "It doesn't matter if you refuse, you know," he says. "He'll still die."

"Then -- why come to me?" Edward's voice comes only with difficulty, and his hands shake. 

Exton steps closer, again, and lays a hand on Edward's arm. "Because if you refuse, it will be much worse for him."

Edward seizes Exton's wrist, gripping it tightly enough to hurt before shoving his arm away. "Don't touch me," he snarls.

"Of course, my lord," Exton says. If Edward's grip has pained him at all, he shows no indication. "My apologies." He steps back again, making an ostentatious bow. "Incidentally," he says, "you do know Master Chaucer, yes?"

This is an irrelevant enough question that Edward is thrown quite off his guard. "Of course, but I don't see what -- "

"Perhaps you know of his tale of Count Hugolin of Pisa? Well, Dante's tale, really -- Master Chaucer's quite well-versed in Italian, you know. Ghastly story, isn't it? It's all true, though. If you ever need someone to die in excruciating and inventive agony, ask an Italian."

Edward's hands clench involuntarily into fists. "Perhaps you could refresh my memory," he says.

"The bishop of Pisa accused him of treason," Exton says, "and walled him up in a tower with his children to starve to death. Which they did, eventually." He smiles, a little, and Edward wonders if he's actually speaking to the devil. "The children went first. And then...their father ate them."

Edward swallows hard. He can see where this is going. He isn't properly armed, or he'd be seriously considering stabbing Exton at the moment.

"It's a terrible death, to die from hunger," Exton continues. "A lingering death. A man can last for days without food, you know. Weeks, sometimes. They say you go mad first. It isn't a death I'd wish on my worst enemy, let alone my -- dearest friend."

"Why are you telling me this?" Edward says. He knows _exactly_ why Exton is telling him this; nevertheless, he needs to hear him say it. 

"But then, one needn't go to Italy to learn to kill a man," Exton says, as if he hadn't even heard. "I'm sure you don't need to be reminded of what became of your great-grandfather." He moves closer then, closer than is decorous, and brandishes the signet ring, holding it almost to Edward's lips. "Or his lovers."

Edward prays that the visceral shudder that grabs hold of him isn't perceptible. Richard had always been obsessed with the memory of Edward the Second. He had even petitioned the Pope to have King Edward named a saint, which everyone else deemed a fool's errand. Which it was, of course, as the Holy See was hardly going to proclaim that an acknowledged sodomite now resided unquestionably among the blessed. It would give people the wrong idea. None of this had mattered to Richard, though; the message was entirely for everyone who had ever seen fit to imply that King Edward's agonizing death, impaled with a red-hot poker, was a just fate, and a warning to all sodomite kings. 

"I know you love him, my lord," Exton says. He is leaning forward now, almost whispering into Edward's ear. The heat of his breath makes Edward's skin crawl. "Could you bear to let him die that way -- alone, in agony? Think of it, my lord -- imagine him burning to death from the inside. Think of how that would feel. Or imagine him wasting away, mad with hunger. People starving to death have been known to gnaw at their own arms, or eat their own fingers..." He shakes his head. "King Richard always did have such beautiful hands." 

"Stop -- " Edward breathes, shoving Exton away and nearly losing his footing as he does so; he catches himself in time, bent over like a man in the Little-Ease, reeling under the weight of Exton's words. "What must I do?" he says, at last. His skin prickles with a cold sweat and he swallows hard against a rising tide of nausea.

Exton places his hands on Edward's shoulders and smiles down at him, all pity now. "I think you know the answer to that, my lord," he says.

***

"I won't leave you," Edward said, disentangling his fingers from Richard's hair and pressing his hand to Richard's chest.

Richard brought his free hand up to lace his slender fingers through Edward's blunt ones. "You will," he said. "You must. You know what they'll think, if you don't."

Edward shook his head. "They already think that," he said. "Let them." 

Richard's fingers clench on his hand. "Do you know the cost of a king's love, Edward, if he should fall from grace?"

Edward knew that this question had haunted Richard nearly all his life. He had always venerated the memory of their great-grandfather, who had loved Piers Gaveston and Hugh le Depenser, and all three of them had died for it. Richard himself had loved Robert de Vere, who had been driven out of England when Edward had been scarcely more than a boy; after his death in exile some years later, Richard had brought his body back to England, and had his coffin opened so that he could kiss de Vere's hands and touch his face. But he also knew that Richard's thoughts were of the much more recent past.

"Before you came to me," Richard said, "they told me about Bushy and Green. How they died. How Bolingbroke let his men...use them." His voice caught as he pronounced the last two words. "They were laughing when they said it, Edward, they asked if they'd bled so much because I let them -- or if I -- " He shook his head, unable to finish. "God," he managed, his voice choked.

Edward felt a sharp pang of guilt as he freed his hand to wrap his arms tightly around Richard. He had never particularly liked Richard's favorites; he'd always resented their place in Richard's affections, and in his bed. "Richard," he said, helpless. "I'm sorry. They didn't deserve -- "

"They did nothing wrong," Richard said. "They died for my sake."

"They loved you," Edward said. "As -- as I do."

"Don't," Richard said, his face pressed into Edward's hair. "Please, Edward, don't. We shouldn't have done this. Not now. It was terribly cruel of me. I shouldn't have put you at risk."

"Richard -- " Edward's own voice came only with difficulty. "I don't regret it."

"Then you're a fool," Richard said, but while his words were sharp, his voice was gentle. He pressed a kiss to the top of Edward's head and smoothed a hand down his back. 

"I'm no upstart, _cousin,_ " Edward said. "Bolingbroke wouldn't risk angering my father." 

He hoped this was true. His father hadn't seen fit to stand up to Bolingbroke yet. He might well encourage anything Bolingbroke had in mind if he had any idea what had just happened.

"I suppose it's _possible_ that he might develop spontaneous respect for rank and kindred." Richard shook his head. "I wouldn't stake my life on it, if it were still mine to hazard."

There was nothing to argue with, after that, nothing that Edward could say or even think about without breaking down. "You should rest," he said, instead. "You haven't been sleeping." Edward wasn't sure that Richard had actually slept at all since before they'd arrived at Flint. The castle had been unmanned and unfurnished when they arrived, and the king's remaining entourage had been so small that everyone in it had slept in the great round keep on piles of straw -- even the small camp bed with no curtains and a thin straw mattress seemed a vast improvement. Edward had not slept much himself, those miserable days; every time he'd awakened after a restless hour or two, he'd seen Richard pacing back and forth around the hall. Before Bolingbroke's arrival Edward had helped Richard pick the straw out of his hair.

Richard smiled, or at least, the corners of his mouth twitched a bit. His face was peaked, and it wasn't only the candlelight that cast deep shadows around his eyes. "You're changing the subject, Edward," he said. 

"Maybe," Edward said. "But you know you can't sleep when you're alone, and you need it badly. I'll go afterwards, if you do."

It was a lie, but in the course of things, only a minor betrayal.

***

Richard fights bravely, in the end.

It shouldn't surprise Edward, but it does. He is too young to have seen Richard quell a riotous mob's anger at the age of fourteen, and the Irish campaign was forestalled before it came to the field. And so as he hangs back, hidden in the shadows, and watches the men Exton sent to assist him (to ensure, no doubt, that he completes his task) fall at Richard's feet, he can't help but stare, awestruck. Even now -- even weak and worn from long imprisonment, bedraggled and half-starved, he still bears himself like a king. Of _course_ this is the son of the Black Prince; why didn't anyone ever see it? Edward's heart swells with pride. For a moment he almost forgets his purpose, almost drops his knife and tears off his hood and runs to embrace Richard.

And there's that voice, that damned voice, in the back of his mind. _I know you love him, my lord..._

It will be a merciful death. He has to remember that. Not the slow wasting agony that awaits him otherwise, not the torment that their great grandfather suffered, only a few brief moments. He will die betrayed, but he will not die alone.

It will be a merciful death.

He repeats it to himself, weeping, even as he drives the knife into Richard's back.

***

Edward awakened as the tiny chamber filled with a grey, watery light, and for an all-too-brief instant he could almost imagine himself content.

They were wrapped around each other on the narrow bed, the ropes grown slack on account of their combined weight, Richard's arm draped over Edward's waist and Edward's hand numb beneath Richard's head, although he didn't dare to retrieve it for fear of waking him. Even after a few hours' sleep, though, Richard still looked exhausted, his face drawn and pale. Edward had only seen him barefaced a few times, and never from this close. The thin morning light made him look -- not _older_ , precisely, even without his array of powders and rouges, but more finely-grained. He had never even noticed that Richard had freckles. He was strangely tempted to kiss every one of them, but for the desire not to wake him; instead, he lifted a careful hand to trace the faint lines at the corner of his eye, only to feel a twinge of guilt anyway when Richard's eyes fluttered open and, in a moment of drowsy realization, his hand came up to cover Edward's. 

"You're still beautiful, you know," Edward whispered. "Always."

Richard's eyes filled up even as he smiled. "I feared growing old," he said. "I needn't have worried, after all."

"Richard -- " Edward meant to say something consoling, a promise that God would still protect his anointed, or even a promise to die with him, but his voice caught in his throat and all he could manage was a choked, helpless sob. It was terrible, embarrassing, but Richard kissed the top of his head and stroked his hair until he was able to breathe again.

"Edward," he whispered, "you said you'd go."

"I know," Edward said. He tried to take a deep breath, but it became more of a sniffle, which made him feel utterly childish on top of everything. "I -- I meant to." This was a half-truth. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you, and I -- " _I realized I'm never going to see you again,_ he meant to say, but he couldn't force his lips to form the words. It was completely true, but there hadn't been much of truth to go around in the whole realm.

"It's all right," Richard said, resting his cheek against Edward's hair, his hand smoothing reassuring circles on Edward's back. "But I need you to promise me something -- I need you to swear it."

"Anything," Edward gasped, his face pressed roughly against Richard's breast. "Anything, Richard, God -- "

"They've taken everyone else from me," Richard said. "Swear to me -- on your honor, your loyalty, your _love_ , Edward -- swear to me that you'll _live_."

It was the last thing, at that moment, that Edward wanted to do. He was going to have to walk out of the door, past the guards, and into a world that would no longer have Richard in it. It was like the sun had fallen from its sphere and nobody had noticed. But he could deny Richard nothing. He reached up to touch Richard's face again before kissing him gently.

"I swear," he whispered against his lips.

***

Richard's body lies limp in Edward's arms, and his blood grows sticky on Edward's hands. Edward had pressed his hand uselessly to the wound he'd made, as soon as he'd drawn the knife from Richard's back. It had been instinctive, as though he could stanch the bleeding; instead he had felt his palm fill up with the blood of his friend, his lover, his king, felt it leak between his fingers as Richard sank to the ground, as he reached up to stroke Edward's face, as the life fled his body. Edward had held him close until the last tremors had stopped and his eyes had gone empty and blank.

His body is still warm. That's the worst part.

Edward had thought it mercy, had meant only to spare Richard further suffering. Now he holds in his arms the broken vessel that had been King Richard the Second and feels as though he has smashed an ampulla. It is strange, that the blood that stains his hands and his clothes and his soul resembles that of any other man. He is left in this world now, and Richard is gone. How could he have thought it an act of love? 

The stain would never wash away. Judas had betrayed Christ; Edward had borne the knife himself.

He wraps his arms around Richard for the last time, pressing his face into Richard's hair. He had always been terribly vain about his hair; now it is dirty enough that the strands cling together. 

" _Subvenite, sancti Dei,_ " he whispers, " _occurrite, angeli Domini, suscipientes animam eius..._ "

There is no one else to say the words for him. He has sent Richard to face God's judgment unprovided and unshriven. What advocate will intercede for him now?

"Christ have mercy on him," Edward pleads, through tears. "Christ who was betrayed, have mercy on him."

His eyes fall then on his dagger, wet and red with Richard's blood. It seems to cry out to him -- _didn't Judas hang himself, shouldn't you do the same?_ He grasps the handle, desperate, meaning to open his own throat. Let his blood wash Richard's away. He bends to kiss Richard's lips before pressing the blade to his skin -- and then, before he feels its bite, lets the knife fall to the ground.

It isn't even repentance, or the fear of hell, that stays his hand. It's Henry Bolingbroke. 

Edward is not the only one with bloody hands. He can't die without facing Bolingbroke. He can't die before laying Richard's body at his feet, before saying to his face: _you did this._

If he must be Judas, he can always hang himself afterwards.

***

It was still not yet prime when Edward left Richard's chamber. He could feel a lingering ache in every muscle; a night on a cramped, uncomfortable rope bed (as well as other things) had taken its toll. He was glad of it. He would think of Richard every time he moved.

Richard was still seated on the bed, watching as Edward stretched his arms and cast the occasional hesitant glance toward the door. 

"You should go," he said. "Before they come in."

Edward nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knelt beside the bed, took Richard's hand, and raised it to his lips. It was already wet with his tears. 

Richard rose unsteadily from the bed. The ring he had dropped on the floor at the sight of Edward still lay where it had fallen; he stooped to pick it up before raising Edward to his feet. "If I'd known -- " he said. He clasped Edward's hand, pressing the ring into his palm, his eyes a little too bright, as though he too were going to weep, and Edward's arms came up to embrace him. He bent to press his lips to Edward's hair.

"Goodbye, Edward," he said.

***

The road to Dover is long and cold. There is a persistent drizzle that soaks Edward's hair and drips down his neck and dampens the hair shirt he's wearing because he couldn't figure out where to get sackcloth, and a persistent chill that has seeped into his very bones. He's covered in mud up to the knees; it had snowed, the day he left, but since then it's just been rain. It's gratifying, in a way. He knew that when Richard died the sun would go out.

Bolingbroke gave him ten days to leave the realm. He doesn't remember how long it's been. He kept track, at first, but it doesn't matter. If he's caught they will kill him. Why should he fear that? He's already lived too long: _it had been good for that man, if he had never been born._

He is already burning in hell, he thinks. Even though he can't stop shivering. They say the grave is cold, too, but it can't be colder than this.

It's not so bad now, at least, as it was. It would be much worse if he could still feel his blistered and bleeding feet. The thought causes his mind to seize on Richard in prison, on his raw and scabbed wrists. They had kept him in chains, out of sheer spite. Edward had combed through Richard's tangled hair with shaking fingers before laying him in his coffin, and done his best to wipe the dirt from his face, and then he'd taken up his hands to kiss the red and broken skin, weeping for the terrible stillness, the departed flicker of life beneath. 

_King Richard always did have such beautiful hands._

It was the first time he had seen Richard at peace. Edward had engraved every detail of Richard's face upon his memory, but without that ever-present restlessness, the features were barely recognizable as his. He felt a terrible envy, for no matter the whereabouts of Richard's soul, Edward could only wish that he were with him, _two kinsmen digged their graves with weeping eyes._

Instead he trudges along as though he were a clockwork man, compelled by some internal mechanism to take step after step, rather than lying down in the dirt to die. When he started out he would recite the _Miserere_ to the rhythm of his own steps, and when his mind became too fogged by grief and cold, he said the _Ave Maria,_ and now he can only repeat _Lord have mercy -- Christ have mercy -- Lord have mercy_ with each step.

In his dreams, huddled among paupers and pilgrims in church-porches, Richard comes to him, regal and naked, and when Edward, trembling with desire, reaches out to touch him, his skin is so cold that it burns. Richard's lips part as though he's about to speak, and nothing comes forth but a torrent of blood. 

When he wakes gasping for breath, it is as though he's inhaled a dagger. 

He wonders, at the times when he has to stop walking because he's grown dizzy from coughing and the pain in his side strikes him like a hammer and the earth seems about to drop out from under his feet, if he has contracted the pestilence -- but the pestilence is merciful and kills quickly.

Edward arrives at Canterbury just before the city gates close. The great spire of the cathedral looms above the whole city, black against the leaden sky. It seems to grow farther away as he makes his way down the high street. Perhaps, he thinks, he is dying; people who see him in the streets step hastily away, raising hands or sleeves or pomanders to keep out the bad air. It is the wrong sort of pestilence they fear; the contagion he carries cannot touch them. 

At least he will die in sanctified ground.

Edward doesn't remember the cathedral being so tall. In the candlelight its vault reaches up farther than he can see; the arches fade into a blacker darkness than the evening sky. The height of it makes him dizzy, so much that his legs give out beneath him and he falls to his knees for a moment before crumpling further. It is a fit posture, at least, for a penitent. He presses his forehead to the floor -- the stones are blessedly cool. He remembers that Richard's father is buried here. For a moment he wonders if he should go to his tomb and beg forgiveness, but his limbs no longer seem to work. He remembers Richard's words to him in Chester -- _swear to me that you'll live_ \-- and he has failed him, done nothing _but_ fail him and fail him and fail him. If he should see Richard in the time to come, how could he look him in the face?

 _Christ have mercy on me,_ he whispers into the stones. 

The last thing he hears is the bells.

***

Edward is terribly surprised when he opens his eyes and discovers he isn't dead.

He has no idea where he is, other than "not dead," supplemented by a vague and deeply unpleasant memory of Canterbury Cathedral and the immediate evidence that he is in bed somewhere, but he doesn't recognize his surroundings and someone has apparently bandaged his feet without him noticing, which means that it is unlikely that everything that has happened recently has been an _actual_ nightmare rather than an _extended living_ nightmare. 

His initial attempt to sit up results in a fit of coughing which alerts the attention of someone who turns out (once he's caught his breath enough to notice) to be a friendly-looking monk. 

"You probably shouldn't do that just yet, my lord," the monk says. He selects a flask from a nearby table and brings it to Edward's bedside. "This should help with the coughing."

The liquid inside is an unprepossessing shade of green that smells worse than it looks and tastes worse than it smells. When Edward pours it down his throat he nearly chokes on it; for an instant, he thinks that even those cloying Saracen confections Richard had been so fond of would be preferable, and then he has to shove that thought aside because thinking about Richard is a keener pain than the raw feeling in his throat and chest. 

"Would you mind telling me where I am?" Edward says.

"You're in the prior's lodgings, my lord," the monk says, and then he turns to someone behind him and says "Brother Hugh, go tell his Grace that he's awake."

 _His Grace._ Edward feels his heart sink: not only is he, in in spite of all his best efforts, still alive, not only does everyone presumably -- seeing as how they've put him in the prior's lodgings and are calling him _my lord_ \-- know exactly who he is, but now he's going to have to face Archbishop Arundel. Who is probably here on Bolingbroke's account. He considers praying for the earth to open up and swallow him, but God has not seen fit to answer _any_ of his prayers lately. Instead he falls back against the pillows, pressing his hand to his eyes. His forehead is cool, which is a sensation he's not quite used to anymore.

"How do you feel, my lord?" the monk says. He's a young man, blunt-featured and sandy-haired, with freckles, because everything in the world is conniving to make him think of Richard.

"Terrible," Edward says. It's an honest answer. He's almost forgotten what that's like, as well. "I feel terrible."

"And so you should," a deep voice replies from the door. Archbishop Arundel sweeps into the room, robes trailing behind him. "You may go, Brother Giles," he adds, and the friendly-looking monk gives Edward a reassuring smile before bending to kiss the archbishop's ring and departing. When he's gone, Arundel sits in the chair beside the bed, fiddling with his ring as he regards Edward impassively.

"My lord of Rutland," he says, by way of greeting.

"Your Grace," Edward says, for want of any other answer.

"Once I got word that you were here, I rode out as quickly as I could," the archbishop says. "King Henry insisted." Anticipating Edward's next question, he adds, "Well, you _were_ quite delirious, my lord. Apparently you said a number of incriminating things."

Edward squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply, which just makes his chest ache. "I don't remember any of it," he says. 

"That's not surprising," Arundel says. "You nearly died."

"You should have let me."

Arundel shakes his head. "The Archdeacon tells me you were thought to be past physic, when they found you. That you're still alive is the Lord's work, not ours. He must have some greater purpose for you."

Edward can feel his eyes begin to sting; he tries breathing again and instead finds himself coughing balefully, hating Arundel and King Henry and his mother and maybe even God. Why did they all have to insist on his staying alive? Why couldn't he just _die_?

"Whatever possessed you," Arundel continues, "to walk eighty miles barefoot to Dover like a sanctuary man, and in winter too? His Majesty -- " he frowns just a little when Edward flinches at the word -- "assured me that you were expressly permitted to leave the realm with the dignity appropriate to your station." He smirks in a markedly unepiscopal way. "He had some choice words for you, but there's no need to repeat them."

Edward swallows hard, as much to clear his throat as anything. His voice comes out only with difficulty. "Do I have to explain it to you?" he says. "I murdered King Richard. He was -- my friend, and my kinsman, and I killed him. He died unshriven, your Grace. How can I possibly do sufficient penance in one lifetime?"

Arundel regards him through unreadable watery-blue eyes that look like they've escaped from a crown-glass window. "We've booked passage to Calais for you," he says, as if Edward hadn't spoken at all. Not that he could say anything more to Arundel, who supported Bolingbroke so staunchly, about his love for Richard, so perhaps that was a small act of mercy. "You'll have a day and a night to leave English lands, after that. King Henry's orders," he adds, handing Edward a letter with a seal affixed to the bottom. Edward glumly inspects the paper; the letter is written in Latin, and he doesn't feel up to reading Latin just yet, but Bolingbroke's angular signature is unmistakable. The archbishop waits a moment until Edward's set the letter down, steepling his fingers as if he's about to deliver unpleasant news. "Your lord father and your lady mother are coming to convey you to Dover. They set forth after I did." 

Edward shivers, and not just because of the lingering cold that's been clinging to him. He isn't eager to see his parents, even though part of him reminds him insistently that after this he's never going to see them again. His father had forgiven him, the last time he saw him; it had been nearly unbearable, because he could never forgive himself. He feels terribly _exposed_ , lying there in his shirt -- in _someone's_ shirt, anyway; it's not his and is far too big for him -- with the Archbishop of Canterbury scrutinizing him. For a moment he is seized with a childish temptation to hide under the covers until Arundel leaves. When did his life go so hopelessly, irreversibly _wrong_?

"Thank you, your Grace," he mumbles. Arundel smiles, or something like it; the corners of his mouth merely curve the slightest bit upward. Nevertheless, it puts Edward in mind of an unusually smug death's-head. 

"You've done the realm great service," he says.

Edward's parents don't arrive for a few more days -- the weather has not improved much, and travel by carriage is slow. He spends most of the intervening time sleeping, which at least reduces the likelihood that he'll have to talk to anybody.

The first sign that perhaps God really has seen fit to have mercy on him is that he doesn't remember his dreams.

He wakes up one afternoon to the sensation of someone ruffling his hair and is curiously pleased to realize it's his mother, and then he feels another pang of guilt remembering how much he'd been resenting her for convincing Bolingbroke to spare his life. He wonders if he'll ever be able to do anything without guilt again. 

"Oh, Ned," she says, taking his hand in both of hers and squeezing it. "My poor stupid boy."

Edward smiles, or tries to, anyway. She's right, of course; he is very, very stupid. It's apparently not a very reassuring look, because her eyes look shiny in that about-to-cry sort of way even though she's smiling at him. She looks _old_ , even, which only adds to Edward's sense that there is nothing in life he hasn't managed to ruin.

"We were _so worried_ when we heard what you'd done," she continues. "Your father nearly had an apoplexy. You could have _died_ , Edward, and then I don't know what we would have done."

"I _wanted_ to die," Edward says, and his mother presses a hand to her mouth and closes her eyes tightly like she's going to cry. He feels a strange tight feeling in his chest, but no tears come -- perhaps he has shed them all. "I -- " _I wish I_ had _died_ , he wants to say, but the words won't come, either. He had promised Richard that he would live; he cannot imagine that Richard would care, now, if he kept his word. He has broken the last faith he had left. "I made a promise," he says instead. "He asked me to promise -- I mean, the King did. Richard, I mean." Richard's name sat cold and heavy on his tongue like lead; he had scarcely pronounced it since he'd laid Richard's body at Bolingbroke's feet. "That I'd live -- because all of his friends had died." He swallows hard. "I was no true friend," he says. 

"Ned," his mother says, again. "I don't understand."

"You _can't_ understand," he says. "Please. Don't make me talk about it." 

She stares at him for a moment, perhaps wondering whether to press further, before giving in. "Your father's gone to see Archbishop Arundel," she says, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "He didn't think you'd want to see him right away -- I know what you're thinking, Edward, and of _course_ he wants to see you..."

Edward closes his eyes for a moment. "Is he also going to tell me I'm stupid?" he says. 

His mother smiles, more or less for real this time. "Probably," she says.

Edward's father does not, as it happens, tell him he's stupid, but only asks carefully about his health and shares some details about his projected travel plans. Whatever he's really thinking, Edward suspects that saying it couldn't possibly be less awkward than the actual conversation. When they leave for Dover, Edward spends nearly all of the long carriage ride pretending to be asleep, sitting between his parents under several heavy cloaks with his mother clutching his hand protectively. It's actually quite uncomfortable, but less uncomfortable than _actually talking to his parents_ would be. He tries not to think about the fact that he's never going to see them again. Possibly they are doing the same thing; they don't say much even to each other. 

They lodge overnight at Dover Priory; Edward's ship isn't leaving until the next morning. He spends his last night in England sitting alone in the guesthouse hall, staring at the fireplace and thinking about hellfire. His feet ache terribly from walking the small distance from his chamber to the hall. He supposes that it's nothing to the pains of hell.

"You should be in bed," his father's voice says, from behind him. "You -- have a long journey ahead of you." His voice catches, a bit, as he says it.

"I couldn't sleep," Edward says, not looking at him. He pulls his cloak tightly about him, as though his father's presence has made the room colder. 

His father sits beside him, and after a moment's silence, he says, "That was his."

Edward blinks in confusion for a moment, looking down at his hands, where he notices he's been absently twisting Richard's ring around his finger. He hasn't spoken to anyone about that night in Chester. He hasn't really intended that to change. "It was," he says. "He gave it to me -- the last time I saw him. Before -- " _Before I killed him._ The words are unspeakable; they stick in his throat and threaten to strangle him. 

He presses his hands to his face and pauses for a minute. "Was he -- what have they done with him?" He can hear a pleading note in his own voice that makes him feel utterly exposed, and he hates it.

"They buried him at King's Langley," his father says. "In the priory. It was quiet, but decent. Not a funeral for a king." He shakes his head. "Henry might have put him at Westminster," he adds. "He should be with Anne. It would have done no harm."

Richard had loved his first wife beyond all measure. After she died -- after the terrible cataclysm of his grief for her, after he had the palace where she died razed to the ground -- he couldn't bear to speak of her. He had had a magnificent double tomb built for the two of them, and yet Richard is buried and Anne still lies alone.

Edward has always known that since then there was something untouchable about Richard. He might have been _happy_ sometimes, but all his joy had been buried with Anne, replaced with something broken and empty that settled into his heart and kept some part of him always at a distance -- even from Isabel, from his beloved favorites, from Edward himself. Now that Richard too is dead, he understands it all too well. He thinks he could tear Pomfret stone from stone with his bare hands. He turns away from his father before he can see his eyes fill with tears.

"You lied to me," his father says, after a long silence, "when you told me why you did it."

"It's the least of my sins," Edward says. What was he supposed to have said? _I did it to win the new king's favor_ is comprehensible, something that his father of all people ought to have understood. _I murdered the love of my life to spare him further agony_ \-- he's been denied the death that was his right as a traitor; he shouldn't have to expose his naked bleeding heart regardless. 

"I don't suppose it matters now," he adds.

"I doubt that you've been trying to kill yourself out of a sense of bruised honor," his father says. "Our Lord requires repentance, not self-destruction."

Edward bends down, buries his face in his hands. "Someone came to me, from Bol -- from -- " he falters, his cousin's proper name feeling inappropriate in front of his father, and his title feeling corrosive in his own mouth. "He did say I could win the king's favor again. All I had to do -- " He swallows hard. "And I spat in his face."

His father snorts. "That sounds more like you."

Edward swallows again; it's getting more laborious to speak, which is only partly the lingering effects of his illness. "He told me that it would be worse for him, if I didn't. That it would be just as easy to let him starve, or -- " He can't bring himself to repeat Exton's reminder of his great-grandfather. "And I thought that at least it would be merciful, if I did it. That he wouldn't have to linger -- " 

"This man came to you from the King?" His father lays a heavy hand on his back, his voice strained.

"He said so," Edward says. "Or from the devil. If there's a difference." It's a treasonable utterance, but he doesn't care. "I thought -- " He can feel the tears springing to his eyes again, and he hates himself for weeping in front of his father. "I thought it was better -- if he had to die -- that I should do it, instead of anyone else. And then he saw my face, and -- " He presses his fists against his eyelids as if he could blot out the memory by force, the blood soaking his hands, the betrayal in Richard's eyes. He too, he knows, took his death-wound that day. "God," he finally forces out. "You were right," he says. "You were right about me."

"I shouldn't have said that," his father says helplessly, wrapping an arm around his shaking shoulders. "The King pardoned you -- and more than that, Edward -- you're my son. I would have repented it to my grave if he hadn't."

"I wish I were dead," Edward sobs. "I killed him -- because I loved him. That's...why I lied to you, before, I couldn't tell you that -- "

He doesn't know what to expect from his father -- does he have it in his heart to be shocked or disgusted when someone who has killed a king admits to being in love with one? Which is why he's completely thrown when his father says, "Edward, do you think I don't know what it looks like when a man's in love?"

Edward's sudden intake of breath brings on a fit of coughing. When he's recovered somewhat, he looks up, stunned. "You knew?" he says. He thinks of his father's promise to Richard at Chester and feels his cheeks flush. 

"It would have been hard not to."

Edward is almost able to smile at that. "I suppose not," he says. 

"I don't understand it at all," his father says, "but you're right, it doesn't matter now. Not to me, anyway. If it matters to the Lord -- I suppose that's between you and him."

Edward nods, looking down at his hands, twisting Richard's ring back and forth around his finger. He doesn't really want to explain himself further, and justifying his love for a man he killed is more than he can bear to do. Richard had been the best thing about his life, and now he was dead by Edward's hand, and if God wants to punish him for his love, he will take it gladly, for he repents every moment of his life for murdering Richard, but he can no more repent of loving him than he could _stop_ loving him. 

His father, perhaps understanding all of this, doesn't press the issue. "What will you do now?" he says, instead.

"I don't know," Edward says. Everyone he can think of on the continent is someone who was connected with Richard in some way. If he'd been exiled for any other reason, he would go to see Queen Isabel, but -- the thought of looking her in the face makes him sick to his stomach. "Perhaps -- " He thinks, entirely against his will, of what Arundel said to him: _He must have some greater purpose for you._ He wonders what use God would have for an empty vessel.

"Perhaps I'll go to Jerusalem," he says. "When I can walk properly, I mean."

His father's voice is grimly amused. "That's what your cousin said," he says, and Edward notices that he didn't say _the king._

"He won't, though," Edward says, and his father is silent for a long time before he answers.

"No, he won't."

**Author's Note:**

>  **to change his clothes:** This and the other details of Richard's return to London come mostly from Jean Créton. 
> 
> **John Bushy and Henry Green:** In real life, their heads were displayed not in London but in Bristol (where they were executed) and York respectively. It would only have been possible to pass the Drawbridge Gate on the way to the Tower if you were crossing London Bridge from the south. I'm assuming Bolingbroke went out of his way to make sure Richard got a look at his favorites' heads.
> 
>  **Agricola** : Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Roman governor of Britain (AD 77-85). Nobody is quite certain why the main tower at Chester Castle is named for him, since it was built in the 12th century. Aumerle's explanation is speculative on my part -- people in medieval England also thought Julius Caesar built the Tower of London.
> 
>  **your brother** : Richard of Conigsburgh, 3rd Earl of Cambridge (1375-1415). It is possible that York did indeed think that his younger son was illegitimate; his mother, Isabella of Castile, did have an affair with John Holland, and York didn't give Richard any lands or bequeath him anything in his will. I have quietly ignored the indication in the text that Aumerle is an only son, especially as Richard of Cambridge appears as a character in _Henry V_ and his son, Richard, 3rd Duke of York, is the one you're familiar with from the Wars of the Roses. The alternate history resulting from Richard of Conisburgh inheriting the title of Duke of York I leave as an exercise to the reader. 
> 
> **Northumberland's daughter** : Margaret Percy married Alan de Fenwick in 1400. Lewis Theobald's 1719 adaptation of _Richard II_ includes a tragic, fictional romance between Aumerle and a character called "Lady Percy," daughter of Northumberland and thus presumably a fictionalized version of Margaret. 
> 
> **he doesn't think he'll _ever_ be of a mind to get married** : Historically, Aumerle had married Philippa de Mohun in 1397. 
> 
> **HIC IACUIT...POSTREMO** "Here Richard, ~~King of England~~ King of nothing lay, in the final year of his reign." The Latin _iaceo_ can have connotations of lodging, being dead, or being overthrown, all of which are directly or indirectly relevant.
> 
>  **of life and limb and of earthly worship** : This formal proclamation of homage is used in the coronation service to this day.
> 
>  **Sir Piers Exton:** Courtier who assassinates Richard in the original text of Shakespeare's play. 
> 
> **Pardons can be revoked:** Exton invokes the Duke of Gloucester here because he had been pardoned in 1388 for his role in attempting to overthrow Richard; the pardon was revoked in 1397 when Richard finally felt he was in a strong enough position to move against his political enemies.
> 
>  **Count Hugolin of Pisa:** Exton refers first to Chaucer's "Monk's Tale" and then to Dante's _Divine Comedy,_ cantos 32-33. His name in Italian is properly _Ugolino_. The implication that he resorted to cannibalism after the deaths of his children is stronger in Dante's version than in Chaucer's. Both of the alternate methods of death Exton suggests have particular significance; in real life he did indeed die of starvation.
> 
>  **the Little-Ease:** An infamous cell in the Tower of London, small enough that a prisoner could neither stand up nor lie down. There is no record of its use before the sixteenth century.
> 
>  **unmanned and unfurnished** : This detail is taken from Créton, referring not to Flint Castle but to Richard's efforts to escape Henry's grasp after his landing in Wales. The line about the **round keep** , however, does refer to the real Flint Castle. 
> 
> **_Subvenite, sancti Dei_ :** Prayer intended to be said over someone who has just died: _Come to [his] aid, saints of God; come to meet him, angels of the Lord, receiving his soul..._
> 
>  **What advocate will intercede for him?** Echoing exactly the words of the Requiem mass ( _Quem patronem rogaturus_ ).
> 
>  ** _It had been good...never been born_** : Matthew 26:24. The line refers to Judas.
> 
>  ** _Miserere:_** i.e. Psalm 51, perhaps the most familiar of the [Seven Penitential Psalms](http://www.medievalist.net/hourstxt/penpss.htm). 
> 
> **The great spire of the cathedral** : Canterbury Cathedral doesn't have a spire _now,_ but it did in 1400.
> 
>  **like a sanctuary-man** : Criminals who took sanctuary in certain churches were given the option of _abjuring the realm_ rather than facing trial. This entailed leaving the country by an assigned point of departure, wearing sackcloth and carrying a wooden cross. If he couldn't get passage right away, he would have to walk into the sea up to his knees until he could. I haven't actually found any evidence that they had to do this barefoot, but Edward is hoping he will get pneumonia and die.


End file.
